


Oh, Captains, Dead Captains

by NeoVenus22



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Crack, Episode Tag, Gen, Minor Character Death, Minor Character(s), POV Minor Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-11
Updated: 2010-03-11
Packaged: 2017-10-07 21:48:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/69578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeoVenus22/pseuds/NeoVenus22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When one joins Stargate Command, it's usually with the knowledge that one way or another, they're going to give their life to the project.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oh, Captains, Dead Captains

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers: 9x15, 'Ethon', and 10x09, 'Company of Thieves'. Anything through season 9 is fair game.

Colonel Paul Emerson didn't pretend to know much of anything during his years serving for Stargate Command. Sure, he had the basics down. The Ori were bad, the Goa'uld were worse (or was it the other way around?), the galaxy was always under some threat or another. But he'd be lying if he said he knew the first thing about deep space telemetry or astrophysics. And even if he had the security clearance to be clued in on some of SG-1's wilder missions, he knew he wouldn't have the foggiest about what fueled them.

Emerson knew he was damn lucky. His years with the Air Force had been fruitful, and not wrought with much tragedy, and as a reward for his hard work and dedication, he got to command the crew of a spaceship. A _spaceship_, for Chrissakes, one that had shields and weapons and any number of things that you only ever saw on TV. He had a great crew, that he liked and respected immensely.

He didn't know anything about anything else, though, and the biggest mystery yet was what on Earth he was doing in this bowling alley.

"Paulie," a familiar voice beckoned. "Get some shoes, we'll play a few games."

Emerson blinked in the wake of the intensely bright light spilling through the picture windows at the front of alley, letting his eyes adjust. Only a few guys had ever called him Paulie, old military buddies. None of the other straggling customers at the alley seemed familiar, and certainly didn't register his existence, just the one man at lane 6, wearing a hideous floral shirt and half-smiling at him.

"Lionel?" he asked, approaching Colonel Pendergast, hardly able to believe his eyes. Pendergast was an old friend, the best kind of friend, and Emerson was glad to see him, but the fact of the matter was that Pendergast had died last year when the _Prometheus_ was destroyed. It was the reason that Emerson was in space flying the _Odyssey_ in the first place.

"Good to see you," Pendergast said with a certain amount of warmth.

"Good to see you, too," said Emerson, confused beyond all reason. "Where are we?"

Pendergast shrugged, unperturbed. "Limbo, Heaven, something like that. Not really sure."

"No offense, but bowling isn't exactly my idea of Heaven."

"Must be Limbo, then."

Limbo. Heaven. Suddenly, Emerson remembered everything. The _Odyssey_ had been dispatched to look for a second Ori Supergate, with Colonel Carter on board, only they'd been lured into a trap by a few Ha'tak ships, driven into a minefield, and had been left stranded in space. They'd been boarded by a member of the Lucian Alliance, the sons of bitches who'd been plaguing the various voyages of the _Odyssey_ for the better part of six months, and the crazed leader of the pirate crew had threatened Carter, and made a few lewd comments on her behalf, and had ultimately shot Emerson.

He was dead. He was _dead_.

"Is the crew okay?" he demanded of his predecessor. "Is Sam?" God, if anything had happened to Sam, he'd never forgive himself. It didn't matter if she was a member of the flagship SGC team or not, as long as she was on his ship, she was his responsibility. Besides that, Sam was a genius and an incredibly sweet individual. The world could keep spinning without Paul Emerson on it, but it would be a sorrier place without Samantha Carter.

Pendergast looked at him with impossibly dark eyes. "I don't know. I don't really know much of anything, to be honest with you. I just came here, and then you came here."

"You died," Emerson said. "A year or so ago, when—"

"The _Prometheus_ was attacked," Pendergast interrupted. "I know."

Emerson had heard the horror stories from Mitchell, one of the few people to witness it. The Ori weapon severing the ship in half, the ensuing explosion that cast a bright gleam over the planet below. It still made Emerson's chest seize to think about it. "They made it out okay, Lionel," Emerson admitted, feeling it needed to be said. Maybe Pendergast already knew, he wasn't sure what the man might remember, but Emerson needed to say it, to have it released into the cosmos. "Seventy-six people owe their lives to you." He wished he could say the same for himself, wished he could know indefinitely that his death had meant something, that he hadn't taken one in the chest in vain.

Pendergast nodded once, slowly, as though he already knew. "Wonder if we'll ever get to go back," mused Pendergast, running his thumb over the surface of a shining bowling ball. It was a rich royal purple, engraved with the name 'Shirley'. After too pregnant a pause, Emerson remembered that Pendergast had left a wife and kids behind. He tried not to flinch.

"Well," Emerson said in a forcedly cheerful tone, although he couldn't clear his mind fast enough to erase the slight dark weight to his voice, "we all know what happened to Dr. Jackson."

To his surprise, and imminent relief, Pendergast grinned a little. "Not exactly looking forward to being dropped naked on a planet," he cracked.

Emerson smiled back. "I'm thinking it might be better than that shirt, Colonel. What, you steal it out of Teal'c's quarters?" It was hideously bright, splattered in a pattern of lurid palm trees. They both erupted in laughter, recalling the Jaffa's fondness for ugly shirts. Certain days, the seasoned alien warrior that was largely feared and universally respected by the personnel at Stargate Command could be seen strutting around its hallowed halls, oblivious to the fact that his off-duty wardrobe was practically causing blindness. He kept a remarkable good humor about the whole situation. Emerson liked him just as much as he did Sam or Mitchell or Dr. Jackson.

He picked up a ball, trying to ease his mind of worries about SG-1, trying to clear questions about what he'd left behind on his ship. The ball was a bright green, matching one of the swatches on Pendergast's shirt. He rolled it in his hands, sliding his fingers into the holes. "We haven't done this in ages," he said. "Bet I can still beat you."

"You never beat me," laughed Pendergast, hefting the 'Shirley' ball. "You usually got drunk halfway through the game and started granny-balling it."

Emerson laughed; it wasn't far from the truth. He only hoped there would be alcohol here, too. He felt like he was gonna need it. He wanted to ask how long Pendergast had been there. He wanted to ask how long he was supposed to be there. He wanted to ask any number of whys and hows, but knew Pendergast didn't know and couldn't answer any of his myriad of questions. Given his lead, he probably had more questions than Emerson did. So instead of asking, Emerson shot his ball down an empty lane, and watched the pins scatter on impact. The last two remained, in a seven-ten split.

"I get that all the time, too," Pendergast said sagely. "I get the feeling that when I can knock those bastards down, I'll get to leave."

Emerson nodded. He was suddenly remembering how bad of a bowler he was. "I need a beer," he said, but when he turned around, there was already a couple of bottles chilling on their table. He grinned, and knocked one back, watching as Pendergast clipped the left flank of the pins.

"SG-1 gets themselves into weird shit," Emerson observed, enjoying the cold slide of the beer down his throat. He'd only been back on Earth for not quite two days before Landry sent them out to investigate the Supergate. Barely enough time to settle himself back in at his little-used house and get comfortable.

"Tell me about it," said Pendergast, coming to join him. "Most of my missions were rescues."

"They had me schlep the _Odyssey_ out to the Pegasus Galaxy once. Got to play tag with a Wraith ship on the edge of a black hole."

"I got to transport a Mark IX warhead to an Ori-controlled planet."

"Was that another of Mitchell's crazy ideas?" laughed Emerson. "Can you believe he got promoted to leader of SG-1? The guy's crazy." Mitchell had been in a different F-302 class than Emerson and Pendergast, but all of them had flown in the Antarctic battle, and had come to know each other relatively well. To his credit, Mitchell had never looked defeated when Emerson had visited him in the hospital, and Emerson suspected that the man was used to these sorts of results from his insane piloting skills and equally insane plans.

"You mean Shaft? Crazy as they come. But the guy's got tenacity. After that fight with Anubis... hell, the man deserves a lot more respect than he probably gets." Pendergast shrugged. "General O'Neill promoted him with the best intentions, and the man's unorthodox, but rarely wrong."

"Hey, I'm not complaining," said Emerson, throwing up his hand in surrender. "I wouldn't want to do what they do. I barely make it through what _I_ do." A beat later, he realized the utter truth of that statement, and rather than depressing him, it made him laugh. He laughed hard, for several minutes, and when Pendergast joined him, he only laughed harder. There were two men, one in a plaid jacket and one in a floppy fishing hat, two tables over. They had neither balls nor shoes, and they sat there as if the two colonels didn't exist. Behind them was a blond woman in a pink track suit with a matching ball, studying the layout of the lane in front of her, but not actually bowling. This place was very odd.

"Do you like them?" he found himself asking. It wasn't particularly relevant, except for when one took into consideration that saving SG-1 was largely the reason they were both there. "SG-1, I mean."

"I like them. I _respect_ them. Wouldn't be here if I didn't. Why, having second thoughts?"

"Actually," Emerson said, needing only a few seconds of contemplation, "no. I mean, yes, there are better ways to die than getting shot in the chest... and it would've been nice to have gotten promoted to general..." Emerson grinned and tipped back his beer. "I wish it didn't have to be now, but I have no regrets."

"Me neither. Still, makes you wonder why Dr. Jackson put up with this nonsense twice." Pendergast gestured at the desolate bowling alley.

"Quest for knowledge, and all that. You know how he gets."

"Don't we all," Pendergast said, finishing his drink. "So. Game on?"

Emerson brushed off his hands and stood up. The dim fluorescents were a sharp contrast to glaring white coming from the windows and hit his periphery when he rose. It blinded him for a second or two, then stopped bothering him altogether. "Game on."


End file.
